Betting on Love

By Alexis Abbott

Lovers to enemies. Enemies to lovers.
When Hadley walks into the casino with a pile of chips, a smirk on her beautiful lips, and a swivel to those perfectly curved hips, I start questioning if I've been playing my hand all wrong. She almost walks out with a cool million. One woman, able to swindle the whole mafia. She's too cool for this world. I can't let her walk out of my life anymore than my boss will let the money leave the casino.

A night of wild passion awakens me to what I've been missing in my life. They don't call me Dom for nothing. But we're playing on two different sides of the table, and the way she glares daggers my way is irresistible.

For the last ten years, I've been living under the Mafia's thumb. Smart enough to catch a cheat, and ruthless enough to bloody some knuckles, my way to being a made man is almost certain.

Except, in the Mafia, nothing is certain until it's a done deal.

And when I find out she's the next target to disappear?

All bets are off. She's going to be mine.

I dare them to try to stop me.

Betting on Love is a standalone romantic suspense with lots of steam, and a very hot Alpha Dom. Who doesn't love a lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers romance? No cheating, no cliffies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pathforgers Publishing
• Release date: Nov 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386477921

Alexis Abbott

Alexis Abbott is a Wall Street Journal & USA Today bestselling author who writes about bad boys protecting their girls! Pick up her books today if you can’t resist a bad boy who is a good man, and find yourself transported with super steamy sex, gritty suspense, and lots of romance.She lives in beautiful St. John's, NL, Canada with her amazing husband.

Book preview

Hadley

Icertainly did not come here today to meet a man.

In fact, I kind of pride myself on only associating with men who are either paying me outright or who are dumb enough for me to take their money on the downlow. Either way, I had better be getting paid.

As I sit under the rolling purple and gold lights, I know perfectly well how sensual and captivating it looks flickering across my face. Everything about me, both natural and intentional, is perfectly designed to transform me into a trap.

I’m like those sparkly, glittery fishing lures they sell at little shacks by the sea for fishermen. I am a siren, a shapeshifter moving through the tipsy crowds thick with cigar smoke and heady, reckless desire. People don’t come to a casino to make bright, brilliant choices. They come here to escape things. Dark shadows, past mistakes, trouble at home, unhappy marriages, responsibilities stacking up and looming over them like some ravenous beast.

On the outside, any man who walks into a casino can look cool and collected. He can look like he’s there for a casual hour of people-watching, to strut around in designer duds and flirt with the pretty blackjack dealer. But trust me, no matter how slowly he seems to be moving, he’s actually running. Running away from something. Ready to forget his mistakes by committing brand new ones.

And that is where I come in.

I know what I look like. I am not vain, but I’m pragmatic. I know exactly what my fiery red waves the color of copper wire, creamy white skin, and wide grass-green eyes do to people, and especially men. It’s one of the reasons I got this job.

Besides, I’m adaptable.

If a man comes in here looking for trouble, then trouble is what I’ll give him. With those guys, all I have to do is show my teeth. They loathe boredom. They long for danger. I can offer all of that in spades. I turn into a vampy seductress, reeling them in and spinning a tight, gauzy web around them until they’re totally wrapped up in fantasy.

If a man comes here looking for someone to soften his pain, to give him hope and listen to his list of woes, then that’s the part I will play. I can make myself seem gentle, acquiescent, easily molded into whatever delicate, doe-eyed waif he’s come hunting for. No matter which mask I wear, I’m always the same serpent underneath.

I’m always sniffing out that payload, it just varies which path I take to find it.

I’ve always been pretty good at reading people, ever since I was an admittedly precocious child. It is difficult to dissuade me, even harder to fool me. I can see someone’s intentions as plainly on his face as his nose or lips. I know how to weasel my way into someone’s psyche, dig out the bad stuff and shine a light on it or search out the weaknesses and exploit them.

Even before I went off to college to double major in math and psychology, I was skilled at both of those disciplines.

Math, I learned from a young age, could help me crack just about any problem fate tossed my way. There was always a formula, always an equation to be finessed and balanced. The world was made up of numbers, and I could use my brain as a calculator to navigate through the minefield of being a woman in this day and age.

Psychology, on the other hand, taught me that I could crack just about any problem human beings threw at me.

The two make a happier marriage than even I could have predicted back when I first enrolled in university as a wide-eyed freshman years ago. I outpaced my classmates and infuriated my professors. I began to see numbers everywhere. I could count and add and divide and multiply like a human calculator. It was fun for me, finding the everyday numbers all around me.

I didn’t finish school. I was given a much more tantalizing offer: to become a card-counting casino maven, tricking witless men into emptying their pockets onto the table, seemingly summoning piles of red and black chips like an enchantress. Just a snap of my perfectly manicured fingers, and the world spilled out into my lap.

Most of the time, I am not affected in the least by the whims and wants of men. I can see right through them, adding them up to divide and conquer just like I do with a deck of cards under fluorescent lights. The idea of ever meeting a man who could keep up with me, physically or mentally, is a bygone dream.

The more sharply I hone my illicit craft, the harder it becomes to imagine a man who resists the equation. So many of them are so easily reduced to numbers. Even the big, tough, brawny guys in their Range Rovers and limousines and glossy Teslas cannot match my stride. I move too quickly. I think too quickly. I am a chameleon, and if there’s one thing I have learned about men, it’s that they do not like a woman who’s hard to pin down.

But this guy, this devilishly handsome man in a sleek, black designer suit expertly tailored to emphasize every rounded muscle and sharp, lean line of his body, has me admittedly a little stumped. When I look at him, it’s a little tricky to find the numbers. He’s not easily fitted to an equation. He’s more complicated than that, I can tell. I knew that before he even opened his mouth to say something to me.

I have to confess, he makes me just a little bit nervous. That’s new. That’s unusual.

And yet, I know how to keep my cool. It takes more than just a pretty face and a low, growly voice to unsettle the likes of me. So I give him a tiny but potent gift in return: a smile.

Can I sit here? he asks, that voice so deep and rough as a gravel road.

I don’t want to seem overly eager, but I can’t reveal my nervousness either. It’s all about waiting for the right prey to drift into my net without sacrificing my place. So I give him a little shrug of my shoulder, biting my plush bottom lip as I gaze up at him through a veil of thick dark lashes. I nod slowly, never breaking eye contact with this absolute rugged mountain of a man.

It’s a free country, handsome. You can sit wherever you like, I purr, leaning back in such a way that my chest is emphasized and my long waves of hair cascade delicately over my left shoulder. And with a face like that, I doubt you ever have to ask permission in the first place, I added pointedly.

Chivalry is next to godliness, he replies coolly, taking the bar stool next to mine.

I raise a perfectly arched eyebrow. I thought it was cleanliness, I answer.

Clean is a given, he says. Chivalry is an art.

"And I bet you think you’re very, very good at it, don’t you?" I tease, a smile playing at the corners of my lips.

Good enough to have convinced a girl like you to speak to me, he counters deftly.

My heart skips a beat and the sensation is so unusual it almost makes me frown in surprise. But I manage to maintain my trademark aloofness. I won’t let the mask slip from my face so easily. This guy may be a slippery fish compared to my usual prey, but if there’s one thing I’m never afraid of, it’s a challenge.

Most of the time, even when a man works up the courage to approach me, I can feel him quaking in his shiny leather loafers. I have a sixth sense for a man’s weakness, the little crack in his armor where the light fights through. It just doesn’t usually take me so long to locate it. But I’ll be patient. I’ve already met my dollar quota tonight. The feeding frenzy is over. I have time for a little game of cat and mouse.

Although, judging by the hungry, almost wolfish look in his eyes as he watched me, I’m a little uncertain as to which one of us is playing which role.

And what makes you think it’s hard work to get a conversation out of me? I ask innocently, changing my tactic a little bit. Clearly, this man isn’t as vulnerable to the femme fatale effect. Maybe he’s more swayed by a poor little lost girl. A delicate flower. Sometimes a beast is better tamed by a lullaby than a whip.

He chuckles softly to himself, peering at me out of the corner of his eye as he turns to face the bar counter, preparing to order a drink. Well, there’s nothing especially approachable about a woman with the face of an angel who’s wearing red stilettos. I have a feeling most men are a little intimidated by you, right? he says sagely. And correctly. But I’m not ready to throw out my masquerade just yet. I’ve got a few cards up my sleeve, still.

Intimidated? By me? I wouldn’t say that, I reply coquettishly, tossing my thick red mane. The guy just smirks at me, his face nigh unreadable. It’s a little unnerving, the way he seems to evade my usual psych-out tactics. I keep firing at his heart, but it’s like he’s wearing a bulletproof vest.

So this whole siren look is meant to be, what, modest? he goads me gently.

I smile at him, but I give him a warning with my eyes. I am not to be toyed with. I don’t respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind or even notice. He gives the bartender a subtle nod to call him over, which is an impressive feat considering how crowded the bar area has become. There are big-spending men dressed to kill, modelesque women in haute couture, all of them clamoring for the bartender’s attention, even offering him little bribes of cash in exchange for some service. But my strange new companion hardly has to move a muscle to cut to the front of the queue.

The bartender, a burly guy whose name tag reads ANTONIO in shiny gold lettering, slides down to lean on the counter in front of us. What’ll it be, folks? he asks.

Gin and tonic for me, comes the smooth reply, and a vodka cranberry for my new friend here.

I open my mouth to protest, but realize there’s no point. He’s right on the money. That is precisely what I would have ordered if given the chance, although usually I prefer to sip tap water while on the job. It’s a strategic choice, not a cop-out. Tap water looks like any variety of clear liquor, it keeps me hydrated and looking dewy fresh, and it allows me to stay clear-headed even while my fellow casino-goers get progressively sloppy and loose with their money throughout the night. Now, though, I’m finished with that for the evening, and a vodka cranberry is the perfect sweet ending to my shift.

You got it, sir, Antonio the bartender says, and immediately gets to work. He expertly pours our drinks and slides them across the bar to us, then asks, Would you like to start a tab?

My companion nods. Yes. I would, he says.

Sipping my drink, I give him a wary look. That’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume our conversation will last long enough for more than one drink, I tell him, hoping my carefully-sharpened words will knock him off his game.

But he seems unperturbed. Maybe. But you strike me as the kind of woman who would scoff at anything less, he explains. I’m not cheap.

Your ensemble tells me that, I quip, looking him up and down.

He smiles and says, By the way, my name is Dominick.

There it is. I feel a tiny cheer of victory deep in my soul. I always prefer for my men to give themselves up first. Enchanted to meet you. I’m Naomi, I lie.

My name isn’t Naomi, but for tonight, it might as well be. I’ve learned that a name can be a precious jewel to guard. Not just anyone can have it. They have to earn it.

Naomi, he repeats, the syllables sounding musical on his tongue. Not the name I would have guessed, but it’s beautiful.

Thank you, I reply.

So, Naomi, tell me what it is that brings you to a place like this, Dominick asks, and I can tell he’s genuinely interested in the answer. That’s strange. Most men don’t care.

What brings anyone to a casino? I answer with a playful shrug. It’s the adrenaline rush. The joy of the game.

I noticed. You’re either the luckiest girl in the world or the smartest, he says wisely.

I smile, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. Can’t I be both? I tease.

He nods slowly. Yes. In fact, I have a sense that you are many different things, Naomi. I’ll bet you’re just as comfortable at a casino bar here in Vegas as you would be sitting on a bench at the gardens of Versailles.

Again, I feel my heart skip a beat. How annoying.

The gardens are lovely, I tell him, toying with the straw in my drink, but it’s the palace that’ll blow your mind.

So, you’re into architecture, Dominick notes.

I’m into all things old and beautiful, I reply. There’s nothing like walking through the vaulted archways of Notre Dame, hearing some centuries-old hymn echoing in the rafters.

You’re well-traveled, then, he points out. I figured.

I rest my chin on my fist as I look at him, letting my guard slip for a moment. I love talking about the places I’ve traveled to, especially with someone who doesn’t begrudge me the luxury or think I’m some uppity snob for it. I don’t travel so that I can boast about it later. I travel because I love to challenge myself, to learn new things, to be a stranger in a crowd for once.

As Dominick and I talk about the places we’ve been and the sights we’ve seen, I find myself leaning in a little closer to him, until, two more vodka cranberries later, there are only a few inches left between us. I have never been so magnetically drawn to a man in my life. It’s not that he has the upper hand, either. I feel like the two of us are standing on equal ground. I don’t have to make myself smaller or taller to fit him. He knows how to mold to my shape, just on instinct.

And I have to admit, I find it completely intriguing.

So when he murmurs, Should we consider taking our conversation somewhere with a little more privacy? it isn’t apprehension or annoyance I feel. It’s excitement.

I have a room upstairs, I reply in a hushed voice.

Dominick smiles. Let’s go.

I even let him take my hand as he pays the bar tab with a handsome tip and the two of us slip away through the drunken crowds. I wonder if he can hear how hard my heart is beating. I wonder if he can smell the adrenaline pumping through my veins. It takes quite a lot to excite me these days, and generally the only thing that makes my heart thump is the feeling of cold hard cash in my hand. But Dominick has me longing for something different. Something a little less impersonal. Something intimate.

We make it halfway to the elevator that will take us upstairs when my cell phone starts to vibrate in my handbag. Frowning slightly, I stop in place and take it out, my eyes going wide when I see the name on the screen.

I apologize, I tell Dominick quickly. I have to take this.

No worries, he says, stepping away a few yards to give me some space.

I slide the screen open to answer, pressing the phone to my ear. Vanessa, I say.

Hadley, she gasps, her voice sounding frantic and out of breath. Are you there? Can you hear me? Please god, say you’re there.

My heart sinks. This doesn’t sound good at all. I’m here, Vanessa, I’m here. What’s wrong? Calm down, I murmur, keeping my voice low.

I hear Vanessa heave a few deep, ragged breaths, and I can positively feel the tears streaming down her pretty face, leaving streaks of black mascara. I-I’m scared. He hurt me. I don’t know what to do. Please—please help me.

Dominick

I’ve been standing by the hotel room window, staring out at the alluring white and neon lights of Vegas glowing up at me, pretending to be distracted. I can’t help but overhear what the girl is saying, though, partly because I’m in the room, and partly because it’s my job to listen.

I didn’t believe her name to be Naomi for a second, but I’ll go with that for now. Honest guests don’t show